


I Caught Fire (in Your Eyes)

by shuwashuwishuwa



Category: Kis-My-Ft2 (Band)
Genre: M/M, Nikaido is the worst angel in a thousand years maybe, Soulmate AU, they are an actual rock band
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 23:31:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4282143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuwashuwishuwa/pseuds/shuwashuwishuwa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nikaido never expected to get the short end of the stick. Senga never expected <i>any of this.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to [Mariko](http://dancerdreams2.livejournal.com/), written for the [JE-Wakamono 2015](http://je-wakamono.livejournal.com/14713.html) fic exchange, originally posted [here](http://je-wakamono.livejournal.com/13835.html).

As with most days, Senga Kento wakes up to his band leader banging on his hotel room door and shouting at him to _get up, get dressed, and be in the fucking lobby in fifteen minutes, it’s seven in the morning, for Christ’s sake_. He rubs a hand over his eyes, groaning about demanding band leaders and shouting ‘I want to take a shower!’ at the door. He doesn’t know if the other man hears him, and frankly, he doesn’t care.

It’s when the initial sleepiness subsides that Senga feels the dull throb on his wrists, like blunt papercuts or a wound that has been there for a couple of hours.

“What the hell,” Senga squints his eyes, unsure if last night was a bad acid trip night because he _definitely_ did not order the circlets of ink surrounding his wrists. He curses out loud when he tries to touch the writing and the flesh is sore.

If his groupmates’ idea of a prank was to get him tattooed while drunk or high, it really wasn’t funny. Not to mention it would get him into so much trouble with management. Ink on your back or thighs (where most people wouldn’t see it) was one thing--but this one was on his hands--an area of maximum exposure.

“What is this, even?” His eyes try to decipher what’s written on his skin, solid black with flecks of gold. Definitely words, unless they’d gotten him a dragon. The script reads, ‘so this is what forever looks like’. _What the fuck_. He’s about to get out of bed in search of any one of them--they had better have a believable explanation for pulling this kind of shit--when he notices the figure sitting by his windowsill, watching him quietly.

There is a “whump” as Senga flails, falling from the bed in a tangle of legs and blankets, still blinking up at the intruder. Did he bring someone home last night?

“Hi,” the stranger waves a hand at Senga, a small, secretive smile on his lips. His voice sounds bright, a little rough, but not from sleep or alcohol.

This doesn’t look like the normal groupie that flocks Senga’s band’s shows. He’s still got his clothes on, for one thing. The lack of black or spiky jewelry or eyeliner is another giveaway. Come to think of it--

“I don’t remember that being in the bathroom,” Senga says, because the man is wearing what looks like either a robe or a blanket. Where was this man’s clothes? “Did you steal the hotel sheets?”

The stranger doesn’t say anything still, but his smile gets just a tiny bit wider. For some reason, this is more irritating than the lack of a reply, and Senga does not have a lot of patience when it comes to most things.

The balled-up shirt that flies from the floor thankfully doesn’t hit anything breakable, although it elicits a surprised laugh from the stranger when it hits him squarely in the face. Senga looks from the shirt--which falls to the floor--to the unwanted guest in his hotel room, who has his thumb between his teeth, studying Senga mischievously.

“Seriously, man, who are you?” Senga’s still on the floor, bewildered at his current predicament, and right now it really sucks that he is such a lightweight, and that he has a shitty memory when drunk. “Did I call you up here last night? Do I have to call security?”

“I’m Nikaido Takashi,” the man says carefully, and Senga swears he must have taken something last night because the play of lights by the window make it look like the man has wings, softly shimmering when he says his name. “We’re soulmates.”

*

Being in a band was serious business, more so when you were as famous as KISMET, and your band leader was a perpetually grumpy person with the name Yokoo Wataru. As it was, the fiasco in his hotel room hadn’t been dealt with yet, but work came first.

With the strange man safely locked inside his bathroom and a promise for him to stay put so they could figure things out later (much, much, later), Senga pockets the room key and punches the elevator’s down button on the wall, hoping to whatever deities that guard rockstars that Tamamori won’t bitch at him for being late.

There was a man in his hotel room. A man with wings. Who claimed to be his soulmate.

The tattoo on his hands weren’t a prank. They were marks. Of ownership. He was claimed.

Claimed by an angel.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Senga mutters to his reflection.

The lift opens, and Kitayama Hiromitsu is leaning against the wall, eyes still closed and mask covering more than half his face. He is holding a small paper cup in one hand, the top still pouring out a little steam. Morning coffee, then.

Mornings like these, they don’t talk until the caffeine has had time to let its magic work, so Senga keeps to himself.

Besides, starting the day with, ‘so hey, if you sent the strange feathered man to my room last night, you can take him back’ wasn’t a good plan of attack. His brain is still rejecting the fact that this is all some misunderstanding, maybe there were hidden cameras around? TV shows weren’t above playing tricks this level these days.

“Ken-chan, you got an allergy or something?” Kitayama’s muffled voice comes from behind the mask, and Senga notices that he’s rubbing his wrists raw.

He pulls at the cuff of his jacket, trying to hide the ink. “Must’ve been something I ate last night.”

Kitayama nods. “Tama caught something, too, Yokoo-san mailed to say he was gonna be late for soundcheck today.”

No Tamamori Yuta means no drummer on immediate sight. It also means no nosy best friend that’ll notice and demand to know why Senga’s fashion sense seems off today. The downside of not having someone of the same childish brain level to mess around with seems bearable.

“Don’t worry about it,” Senga says, presenting his arms. ‘He’ll be pretty useless on the keyboard if he can’t use his fingers today’, is what Kitayama is most likely worried about. “Pretty sure Watta has the good stuff, I’ll whine until he sticks me in with one of those prednisone things.”

*

Tamamori came in after lunch, nose stuffed and looking like death warmed up.

Yokoo refused to give either of them anything, in the end, and Senga sat through rehearsal and a full two sets, screaming fans and blinding lights included.

By the time he’d been declared free to go, he had a headache that was gradually building up to a migraine.

It doesn’t help that “you’re back,” is all Senga gets from the man locked in his hotel room when he switches the light on, late into the night.

To be fair, he answers with a surprised, “fuck, you have wings!”

The man smiles, and he looks like a mischievous schoolboy about to wreak havoc.

“I’m legit,” the man says then, and the wings flap a few beats. “Nikaido Takashi, your angel, sent from up above.”

“I’m too sober for this,” Senga grumbles, beelining for the couch. He avoids Nikaido’s eyes, speaking into the pillow instead. “No offense.”

When Nikaido answers, his voice is flat. “If it makes you feel better, I just got sent down here. I didn’t pick you or anything.”

“I’m sorry,” Senga says on autopilot, because of course, who has ever heard of being able to choose whom their souls got permanently bonded to. Maybe Nikaido had an interesting life before he got re-routed to invade Senga’s. “So. Hey, since you’re my soulmate. Maybe. We can get to know each other.”

Nikaido stares at him, and Senga realizes that the angel is waiting for him to say something.

“Uh, right.” Senga shifts, suddenly uneasy, even if they were in _his_ hotel room. “Senga Kento. Twenty-four. Keyboardist of a rock band.”

“That is. Your job.” Nikaido squints his eyes. “That’s still a thing these days?”

That gets him a snort. “Yeah. Pays the bills and keeps me afloat. Steady supply of ladies, alcohol, the usual fare.”

“Oh.”

“So that’s me. What about you?” Senga examines his nails, sounding disinterested. “You never told me what it is you do. Um. For work?”

Nikaido huffs, like he was answering a toddler instead of a grown man. “I train other, uh, you can call them staff members.”

That gets Senga’s attention. “Training? Like, for war?”

“No,” Nikaido shivers a little, making him look like a bird with mildly ruffled feathers. Heaven at war again, just. No. “Mostly for pre-assignment. How to guard people, watch over important places, keep track of current events.”

“But aren’t you from heaven?” Nikaido nods at the question. “Isn’t your god like--all-knowing? So how come you still need to be updated on what’s happening? _We_ should be subscribing to you!”

Nikaido strands straight, his wings fluttering when he stretches his back. “Ever heard of free will?”

Senga nods. “We can do what we want, just be ready with what those decisions entail, right?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Nikaido starts a slow back and forth through the living room floor for a lack of something better to do. “Kind of messes up the master plan we have upstairs. Humans keep on changing _things_ , the fickle creatures.”

“Hey,” Senga says, a little offended. “I can choose to throw you out, you know.”

“You could,” Nikaido fixes eyes on him, pointing at Senga’s wrists with his chin. “Doesn’t change that, though. You’re gonna have to get used to me.”

“Like a consequence of a bad choice?”

“Yeah, exactly like that,” Nikaido agrees, pushing his hair back with one hand, “only we don’t actually get a choice other than to stick with each other until we can find answers or a way to remedy this.”

Senga doesn’t have an answer to that.

It is how everything about their current lives turn upside down.

*

Nikaido doesn’t actually know that he’s gotten the short end of the stick with this one, not at least until he finds out that it takes a huge amount of energy to glamour himself so his wings and blazing eyes don’t terrify the general public.

He also doesn’t expect that humans--well, what he sees of Senga, anyway--don’t have the same level of decorum that is observed in heaven. More than thrice a day he gets treated to flashes of a butt-naked Senga, prancing around like owns the place (technically, he does), and not having any issues whatsoever about a stranger being in his personal space.

Senga is so human, with a life short and a temper that’s even much shorter, decisions done on impulse more than half the time. Nikaido observes that, even with only being around him for a short time. Almost everything Senga does can be justified by instinct--his choice of clothes for the day, his instrument-playing and singing style (yes, Nikaido has sneaked off and watched a show even when Senga had vehemently warned him not to come), and his hot and cold reception to Nikaido intruding in his daily life.

They had gone from blatantly ignoring each other to Senga calling him “Nika” and demanding they share his bed (and clothes, and kisses and cuddles, and food, the last one Nikaido had refused politely) in four days flat.

He feels a sense of recognition in his blood whenever Senga is near, a surge of affection he never even knew he had in him, a tug of familiarity and closeness so strong it renders him powerless momentarily.

Maybe it’s because they’re special, evidenced by the brand of ink that was supposed to be their first words to each other. Nikaido had said his in a moment of curiosity, and Senga had answered, probably drunk from his partying earlier that evening, but still.

Nikaido has been away from humankind for a while now, Senga his first contact with the mortal world in centuries. A lot has changed, apparently, and he has very little time to adjust. With the news of him being claimed--preposterous, it should have been the other way around, him claiming bondage to a human instead--the higher-ups had to do a last-minute amendment to his current position.

It was a _lateral transfer_ , his boss had said. Now the other angels get to order him around. Nikaido calls it karma, except that’s a Hindu concept and they aren’t supposed to believe that where he’s from.

If he were perfectly honest, Nikaido’s curiosity had been piqued. He would keep playing the game, if only to find out how much more interesting karma’s cards were.

*

“You’re still here,” Senga observes when the mound of blankets moves. Never mind that he’s been saying the same thing for two weeks now. It’s like a layer of his defences come down with every day that he goes back to whatever hotel the band’s staying at and Nikaido is there. Pretty soon he’ll be fine with this set-up and he’ll be attaching a tracking device on Nikaido to make sure he doesn’t get lost.

But back to the current problem. A stray hand appears from beneath the duvet and almost hits Senga in the face.

“Watch it,” Senga nudges the lump fondly, and Nikaido grunts. “What was that?”

“I said stop,” Nikaido moans, head peeking from under the covers. Senga tries very hard not to coo at the bedhead; it’s very adorable, but Nikaido can set him on fire and, no, not a good idea to tease.

“You don’t even need sleep,” Senga argues, voice matter-of-fact, and in a concerned effort to wake the angel up, starts shaking Nikaido.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t like to. Now quit it,” Nikaido swats the hand away, grumbling. “I feel like there’s an earthquake, ugh.”

“So grumpy, Nika.”

“I’m going to suffocate you with a pillow the next time you fall asleep, I swear.” Nikaido squints his eyes, cursing the light. “What time is it, after midnight? If you’re gonna come to bed, make it quick.”

“That’s not how you get people to sleep with you,” but Senga’s taking his shirt off, shivering when the cold air of the AC hits his skin. He dives under the covers and presses himself against Nikaido.

“God, you’re freezing.” An arm snakes around Senga’s middle, and Nikaido cuddles up to him, pressing a sloppy kiss against his cheek. “There. Now go to fucking sleep and don’t disturb me until the cleaning lady bangs on our door.”

Senga smiles, moving closer to leech all of the angel’s body heat. “Mmm, good night, Nika.”

*

It has been three months of touring, and a month and a half of Nikaido living in Senga’s various hotel bathrooms (but only when they get individual rooms; he still doesn’t know what Nikaido gets up to or where he stays when Senga has to share a room with Yokoo in the less urban areas they play shows in), when Senga decides that he can’t postpone it any longer. If this was going to be a soulmate kind of forever, he would to introduce the angel to his bandmates.

He doesn’t say it’s also partly because he wants his friends to stop teasing him about his ‘longest not-girlfriend and not-relationship to date’ whenever he goes off to meet with Nikaido post-shows. Even Tamamori had started grilling him during rehearsals, especially that one time when the set list said the next song was ‘Fire Beat’ and Senga started playing the intro to ‘Winter Lover’ instead.

“That’s not even in the same song category, Ken-chan,” Yokoo had shaken his head at him. He had only been a quarter of the way to annoyed back then, but he had told Senga to sort out whatever was going on between him “and this girl you’ve obviously been seeing,” and given him a friendly pat on the shoulder after rehearsals had ended.

And so with a lot of begging and promises that “fine, I’ll clean up after myself, you could actually stand to do more, being cooped up in the hotels all day,” Senga convinces Nikaido to come to a pre-show rehearsal once they are back in Kanagawa.

“This is Nika,” Senga says, by way of introduction, fingers firmly clasped against Nikaido’s. He lifts their entwined hands, shows them to his bandmates, just high enough so they can see where Nikaido’s ink--bright gold and almost disappearing when laid over his skin--runs the length of the underside of his arm right up to his palm and meets Senga’s own black and gold script.

“Kento, your ‘friend’ has _wings_ ,” is all Yokoo says. His voice comes out even, but his wide eyes betray his shock.

“No, he doesn’t,” Senga tries, but his answer comes out small and very unconvincing, even to his own ears.

Kitayama isn’t moving from his seat just right outside the sound booth, sharp eyes looking Nikaido over like one would inspect a potential bandmate-in-law. He’s got one eyebrow up in question, his head tilted to the side.

“It’s fine,” Nikaido swallows down the nervousness in his own reply, his hand squeezing Senga’s a bit, “I let them see, it’s okay.”

Tamamori walks in on them all, Miyata in tow. He has the decency to stop and look shocked when he sees the current situation.

“Woah, angel, twelve o’clock,” Miyata says, shameless in the face of Tamamori’s embarrassment. He protests when Tamamori grips his hand hard. “But Tama, that’s a _big angel,_ look at those wings--”

“Oh my god, what does that even mean,” Tamamori is whispering to him and saying something along the lines of ‘I can’t bring you anywhere, seriously’. He looks at Nikaido, apologetic. “I’m sorry, he’s very--strange. We’re not dating, I swear.”

“Tama!”

“Toshiya, not now,” Tamamori grits between clenched teeth, never mind that he’s still looking at Nikaido while he hasn’t let Miyata’s hand go. “Um, hi.”

“Hello?” Nikaido answers, somewhat confused. His wings expand and flutter in response to the change in mood. He gauges the other people in the room, irises lighting up a little as he focuses them on Tamamori and Miyata, and then strangely, at Kitayama who still hasn’t said anything.

Uneasy and still not a hundred percent in tune with Nikaido, Senga shifts his weight from one foot to another, silently begging for the angel not to go on full angel mode at his bandmates.

“Please don’t hurt us,” Tamamori, so easily scared of the supernatural, gulps. Beside him, Miyata is making ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ noises, and Tamamori has to slightly turn to hush his boyfriend because really, what if the agitated angel swoops down and brings his godly wrath on them.

“Nika-chan,” Yokoo says, and when Nikaido turns to look--he didn’t even remember the guy being there, he sees Yokoo with an arm outstretched in a placating gesture, the look of shock replaced by a toothy smile. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

*

They had gotten some of the niceties out of the way and introduced themselves, politely and without the threat of bodily harm or godly wrath coming down upon their small group this time. Tamamori didn’t even protest in discomfort when Yokoo had suggested they go out for a late afternoon snack.

All things considered, it could have gone so much worse, Senga thinks to himself as he places the tray of food on the table.

He unconsciously chooses a two-seater, maybe give some time for Tamamori to adjust to the situation. And to give him enough space to drag Miyata away if his boyfriend decides to abandon all reservations about personal space and get a little too touchy-feely.

“That’s so gross,” Nikaido offers from the seat across him, eyeing the hamburger that’s halfway to Senga’s mouth in obvious distaste.

Senga throws a napkin at him. “Shut up. I’m broke, and you don’t eat, so don’t complain.”

“It’s all fat and zero nutrients. Do you want to die early,” Nikaido continues like Senga hasn’t just taken a bite of the fast food.

“Won’t that make your job easier, then,” Senga pauses after swallowing, asking in the same tone he would probably use to ask about the band’s set list for tomorrow’s live.

Nikaido snorts at him, moving the cup of soda away from Senga’s reach. “How long do I have to say I’m not the grim reaper before you believe me?”

Senga bites into his burger instead of commenting. He chews slowly, partly because Yokoo is in the next table and if he chokes on fast food he will never hear the end of it, and partly to stall the conversation from heading into an undesirable direction, especially while they are _in front of everybody_. Nikaido, however, has other ideas.

“Oi,” Nikaido nudges Senga’s leg with his foot, “Don’t ignore me, I asked a question.”

“What, ‘m eat’ng,” Senga grumbles over a mouthful of patty and bread. Yokoo is looking at the two of them, a reprimand about talking with a full mouth probably at the tip of his tongue. Huh, that should teach Nikaido about table manners.

The hamburger wrapper hits Senga’s face before he even realizes that Nikaido has thrown it at him.

“Nika, rude!” Senga is about to toss the wrapper back at Nikaido when he hears Kitayama, of all people, chuckling at them. Senga turns a little to the left. “Mitsu, what.”

Kitayama waves his hands, and Senga doesn’t know if the smile directed at them is genuine--he hopes it is, though, Kitayama is a good friend, these are all his good friends--because it looks a little harsh. “Nothing, nothing. You two just looked cute, all couple-like. That’s a new thing for us to watch, very interesting.”

“Yeah,” Tamamori agrees absently, dipping a french fry in some catsup. “Never thought I’d see the day, Gacchan.”

“We are ignoring all of you now,” Senga groans at them; his friends are a band of idiots. How is bickering in front of people even considered normal and adorable? He faces Nikaido again. “Now, back to you and your littering ways.”

There is the sound of crinkling plastic, Nikaido frowning while he fiddles with an extra soda straw, only stealing a glance at Senga. “Your friends are here. Don’t make me look bad. I’m not going to take your soul and sacrifice it to appease your gods or anything.”

“If this is his way of saying he has good intentions with Ken-chan, I don’t think I’m convinced,” Yokoo says, looking at Kitayama and waiting for his appraisal.

“I’m _right here_ ,” Nikaido turns to look at Yokoo pointedly, managing not to sound overly sharp. “And I appreciate your vote of confidence, thank you.”

“I’m kind of with the angel on this one, guys,” Miyata offers, giving Nikaido an encouraging look. He’s observing them all still, and what Nikaido initially thought was an always-polite smile directed at him turns out to be nothing more but Miyata’s default expression.

It looks alien, in the way that most people who’ve found out that an angel was sort of, maybe, definitely bonded to their very mortal friend wouldn’t normally smile at said angel so readily. Nikaido had expected their less-than-welcoming reactions, truth be told; he just hadn’t expected that he’d have to give a response to said reactions.

Kitayama sips at his soda noisily. “And why is that, Miyata?”

Miyata shrugs, nonchalant. “Technically, if you believe the Bible, they’re made not to lie.”

“And if you don’t,” Yokoo asks, hand covering his mouth as he chews on his food, ever the prim and proper gentleman.

“Well, I guess Sen-chan’s old enough to decide for himself, isn’t he? I’m pretty sure he won’t let us down, he knows what will make him happy.” Miyata answers confidently.

“I’m really more worried about the angel breaking his heart,” Yokoo dabs at the side of his mouth with a table napkin.

“Do your friends really have the habit of talking about your life as if you aren’t _right here_?” Nikaido has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “And we’re not dating, for your information.”

“Riiiiight. You’re just. Living together.” Kitayama isn’t even using a tone with him; he’s just listing facts. “Aren’t you a bit too old to be playing house with Ken-chan, though? You’re what, a few thousand years old, give or take?”

Nikaido quiets down after that, wings drawn back in a tense moment, and Senga doesn’t have to have known him for too long to understand that angels in general are all very touchy when asked about their ages or origins.

 

“Gacchan, wait--”

Tamamori looks like he wants to say something else, but Senga is already up in his seat, looking at his friends one by one, hurt flashing in his eyes for just a short moment.

“Thanks for your time. I’ll see you tomorrow, guys.”

Then he’s dragging Nikaido out of the store and sprinting for the bus stop. Nikaido has to dig his heels in hard, forcing himself to stop and Senga’s hand to let go of his arm.

Senga whips around to face him, eyes wide.

“Go back in there,” Nikaido placates, even though he’s having a hard time controlling his responses as well. His wings flap, the force so strong he has to press his feet flat on the cement if he doesn’t want to unexpectedly lift off the ground.

He doesn’t even know if he’s offended for himself or for Senga, but it hardly matters now.

“Nika…”

“Your friends are probably correct with this one. You barely know me and this isn’t going anywhere.” Senga opens his mouth to protest, but Nikaido stops him with a shake of his head; when he blinks, his eyes have gone fiery. “I _am_ a few millennia ahead of you.”

Senga bites his cheek to keep himself from saying something that could end up with them arguing along the sidewalk.

“What, no ammo left?”

Senga walks to him with sure steps, grabbing hold of his arm. “My friends _are_ right. I can look out for myself.”

“You just--I am giving you an out, because this is a terrible idea.” Nikaido looks worried, the fire in his eyes flaring from an golden orangey glow to a darker, almost molten purple. His wings are still moving, but in gentler motions now.

“You make me happy. I like that. I know you do, too, else why would you go all snark on my friends when they were cornering you. I like having you around; we always have a great time together. Why can’t it be about that?” Senga knows the tone is pleading, the not-quite whine that gets him an extra five minutes during break time without Yokoo yelling at him to quit slacking off.

He hopes Nikaido is as easy to wheedle into things as his band leader.

The fire fades, just enough to show the soft brown in Nikaido’s eyes as he fixes Senga with a long look. “I’m not going to say no to you, you know that.”

“No, you’ll only say I’m an idiot, I’m going to get hurt, and that you’ll watch as I burn,” Senga starts to smile, moving so he can twine his fingers with Nikaido’s instead. For a few moments, he can feel the angel’s wings wrapping them up, like a shield, a barrier to protect them both. He’s never felt this safe in a very long time. “Nika’s always like that, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, whatever, let’s just go before your weirdo bandmates come after us. And quit calling me that name already, it’s gross.” _It’s a damned good thing angels don’t get migraines,_ Nikaido gripes internally as his wings unfold around them and relax behind him, but he can’t help the small smile of his face when Senga squeezes his hand tighter and doesn’t let go all the way back to the apartment.

*

‘Gacchan, I’m sorry,’ Tamamori’s mail reads, six and a half hours later, along with a string of missed calls. He’s the only one who bothered to properly apologize, and if Senga wasn’t so angry he would have been worried that Tamamori wasn’t using emoji. ‘Please don’t be mad anymore, we’re all really sorry. Mitsu says he’ll even treat Nikaido-san to yakiniku when you bring him next time.’

“That’s your best friend, right,” Nikaido comments when Senga tells him about the message.

Senga and Tamamori had been friends since kindergarten, when one of the older kids in their daycare center had laughed as he poured a bucket of water over Tamamori’s head, and Senga had gone to the guidance counselor’s office the same day for giving the kid a black eye and a bleeding arm.

They had been five years old then, and right now Senga was at least expecting his oldest friend not to judge harshly about Nikaido.

“Kenpi,” Nikaido elbows Senga back into the present; they’re lounging in bed and the TV is on, giving them a soft, white noise. His wings are stretched out, relaxed and blanketing the two of them.

“What?”

Nikaido smiles at that. “You’re not paying attention at all, are you?”

“I’m sure those were all great ideas,” Senga answers, rolling over to his back.

“Yes, torching your band leader’s bar tomorrow night to make a statement sounds fantastic,” Nikaido ponders seriously. “You think we should stop by his apartment complex, too? Really drive the point home.”

“What,” Senga says, more focused now. “Nika, no. I know you can do all that, but no. There are kids in that building. Watta has a family.”

“Hah, you think I’m gonna let you go to jail for arson,” Nikaido hits him upside the head.

“Ow, quit it, Nika” Senga rubs at his temple, “Don’t make me be stupid like you.”

Nikaido makes a face at him. “Can’t help with that since you’re already stupid. But seriously, this Tamamori.”

“What about Tama?” Senga frowns. He is hoping, if worse comes to worst, that his best friend would still try to get along with Nikaido.

Nikaido gestures at Senga’s phone. “He already said sorry. You should give him a call, let him know you’re safe. I’m sure he’d appreciate that.”

“What about you?” Senga looks at him like he’s grown another set of ears.

“What _about_ me?”

There’s some more of Senga rolling all over the bed until he’s barely squishing Nikaido against the wall. “I don’t understand why you’re insisting on this, Nika. Why you’re okay with this.”

“It’s not like that, okay.” Nikaido huffs, extending his arms in a futile attempt to push Senga away from his person. “Mortal lives are short, and. He’s your best friend, how long will you still have each other for?”

“Why? Will either of us be dying any time soon? Can you see things like that?”

“No, idiot, what nonsense are you on about now,” There’s a grunt of pain as Nikaido’s hand connects with Senga’s shoulder none-too-gently. “All I’m saying is I don’t have to like them, but seriously, you guys shouldn’t fight about me, seeing as I can just wait for all of you to grow old and stop breathing, literally.”

“Nika!” Senga hits back multiple times, and Nikaido is guffawing, the two of them making a mess out of the bedsheets and blankets, Nikaido’s pleads for mercy mixed with laughter and “I’m kidding, I’m kidding, okay!”

“Don’t say things like that,” Senga says, looking very serious. Nikaido draws out a long sigh, and then Senga’s being gathered into a loose embrace, feathers white as snow hiding the two of them in their own small space.

“Be nice to your friends tomorrow, okay,” Nikaido is running his hands up and down Senga’s arms, and when did cuddling ever become his expertise, when was it that he became the one to go to for feelings and encouragement. “They’re all just very concerned about you.”

Senga just nods, out of words for the moment, just enjoying the warmth and security of having Nikaido against him; it makes him feel brave, like he can face all the troubles in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of alcohol on this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to [Mariko](http://dancerdreams2.livejournal.com/), written for the [JE-Wakamono 2015](http://je-wakamono.livejournal.com/14713.html) fic exchange, originally posted [here](http://je-wakamono.livejournal.com/14277.html).

They bid each other goodbye amidst the sloshing of half-full beer cans and the cheering of passers-by. Yokoo likes to take care of his members, arranging for cabs to take them home even before they decide on where to have dinner.

Kitayama goes first, something about his dog not having eaten since this morning. Yokoo just shakes his head fondly. For all that they’re only barely a year apart, his and Kitayama’s personalities are the polar opposites, sometimes. Might be why they work so well professionally.

“Ken-chan, great work today,” Yokoo raps the taxi roof twice, nodding at the driver; he might look like he has zero alcohol tolerance, but he can outdrink the rest of KISMET thrice over. It’s part of why he decided on opening a bar, so everyone else can just get trashed in his place instead of being plastered all over the news the next morning.

Senga nods, leaning on Tamamori. He’s not that drunk, especially because someone is warming his bed at home and who would pass that up, really. “You too, Yokoo-san. Can’t wait to hear that new song you’re working on.”

“Mmm, we’ll talk about that next time, you guys come up with your own material, too.” Yokoo’s smiling; it must be a good night to write songs.

Yokoo gives a small wave goodbye and closes the door gently. The window’s open, though, because Tamamori will not risk paying for the re-upholstery of this car in case his stomach decides to revolt while they’re on the highway.

Tamamori slurs a ‘good night’, waving back, unsteady. He and Miyata were in the middle of a fight, which prompted a drink fest earlier, but for all that he was cursing and mumbling about ‘inconsiderate idiot boyfriends’ the entire evening, Tamamori had still asked to be dropped off at Miyata’s apartment building.

It’s a silent ride to Miyata’s place, mostly Senga tapping a soft beat against the window while Tamamori dozes off next to him. He’s building up to a steady rhythm, imagining long, pale fingers and strong, wiry arms banging behind the drums while the notes come to him, flowing like a stream.

Tamamori is listless, though, copious amounts of alcohol in his system and without a comfortable position to crouch into. Senga looks at their reflection in the glass, a good twenty or so years of companionship, a lifetime of memories. It’s hard to imagine how life would have turned out for him if Tamamori weren’t in the picture, even though the two of them had uneventful childhood and teenage years.

Senga remembers belatedly, in the middle of his inebriated rambling a while ago, what Tamamori had let slip: he was still a little worried because even after he had apologized, Senga had been distant. Had Senga not forgiven him after all?

It wouldn’t do much to argue with Tamamori while drunk, so Senga stuck to the method that would surely convey his feelings--looking out for his best friend and making sure he got home safe and with no scandals attached to his name. They had never been a pair for words, anyway.

Three weeks had passed since the fast food joint disaster, and the rest of the band had come up to apologize to him on separate occasions. They had only been wary, protective because they had good intentions.

Kitayama had even promised to be cool with Nikaido if Senga brought him over to watch rehearsals or lives.

“Hey, we handle Miyacchi being a dork in the front row and tarnishing our fans’ reputation all the time. What’s another one, right?”

Senga had laughed and clapped Kitayama on the shoulder, and that was that.

The cab slows to a stop, jarring Senga out of his musings. He pats Tamamori on the cheek affectionately. “Back in your castle, your majesty.”

“Oh,” Tamamori comes awake, blinking slowly. He smiles lopsidedly at Senga, securing his bag strap on one shoulder and stepping out of the cab. “Call me when you get home, okay?”

Senga smiles and nods. “Yes, mother.”

“Say hi to Nikaido-san for me,” Tamamori answers, one hand going for the keys in his pocket, the other closing the door as the cab starts moving again.

Senga ponders on that as he absently directs the taxi driver where to go. What did it mean that his friends were willing to tolerate, maybe, hopefully get along with his soulmate? That was good, right? More freedom, less drama.

The rest of the travel to his apartment is quiet as he plays over the last weeks in his head. A normal life. As normal as one was going to get, being in a famous rock band and having an angel bonded to you for life, anyway.

It’s a nice surprise to come home and have the door to his unit open before he has the time to take his key out.

It’s even nicer to have a warm body hurriedly dragging you across the house to pin you against your bedroom door and kissing you with fervor. Senga moans at the contact, chasing it with his lips when Nikaido tries to step back a little.

“Eager, aren’t we,” Nikaido hums a pleased response.

“We weren’t done,” Senga mumbles into their kiss, gripping Nikaido’s hips and fitting them together snugly.

“You’ve been drinking,” Nikaido chides him, but he’s pulling at Senga’s shirt and pants, apparently not sure about which piece of clothing to undo first. His shirt gets pulled over his head and thrown to the floor, and then Nikaido’s fingers are tracing patterns against his chest, eager but feather-light, an artist carefully handling a masterpiece.

Senga bites at Nikaido’s lip in response, nosing at the crook of his neck, inhaling the by now all-too familiar scent. It makes his gut clench and his head dizzy. He mumbles, “this isn’t the alcohol.”

Nikaido whispers “I know” against warm skin, unbuckling Senga’s belt and popping off the jeans button impatiently, mouth latched to Senga’s throat. That will leave a mark, but Senga’s bandmates already know who he is, so what the hell, right?

“Yes,” Senga’s knees almost give out when Nikaido gets a hand on him, his underwear pulled down just so he can see the way blood fills his cock instantly. Nikaido pulls once, twice, thrice and Senga closes his eyes in blind pleasure, losing count when he hears Nikaido breathe next to his ear.

Not to be outdone, Senga tugs on the waistband of Nikaido’s sweatpants, pleased to feel that he’s gone commando this time. He palms Nikaido’s dick, hot and heavy, and strokes to a slow rhythm.

“Open your eyes,” Nikaido orders after a bit, voice low and deliciously thick. “Open them and look at me.”

Senga follows the command and looks at Nikaido’s irises showing fire. He almost backs away, except Nikaido’s still stroking him and his hands feel warm and good, the faint outline of wings about to appear behind Nikaido the moment his control snaps, and holy shit--

“Nika,” Senga warns, voice firm and hand going tight on Nikaido’s dick.

“What,” comes the grunted answer. Nikaido’s eyes are still glowing red and yellow and gold, fucking hell.

Senga has to swallow before he replies, voice rough. “You have your hands down my pants, literally.”

When Nikaido takes Senga’s chin in one of his hands, a rush flows through his veins, fluid and scorching hot, as if they had always shared bodies, every inch of their skin pressed together feeling feverish. Nikaido keeps the hand on Senga’s cock moving, and somehow that’s what hits home.

The familiarity of it all strikes Senga speechless and full of emotion. _There’s fire running through the blood in his veins_ , is what he sees, looking deep into Nikaido’s eyes, and Senga doesn’t know whether to be awed or terrified or more aroused.

“Trust me, I got it under control,” Nikaido smirks, and after he takes a deep breath and blinks, his eyes fade back to the soft brown they’ve always been. He noses at Senga’s jaw, licking and tasting salt there, and Senga isn’t even embarrassed when he groans at the feeling of it.

Nikaido grunts, and that’s when Senga gets manhandled and pushed down on the bed, finally; he’s treated to the view of Nikaido’s chest when the angel traps him with knees against his hips to take his shirt off, and dear god, why does Nikaido wear shirts with that body, he doesn’t need them. Ever.

Senga swallows, desire pooling low in his belly. He can’t control his hands as he pulls Nikaido down to him--he needs to touch, and map, and maybe taste this body _now_.

Nikaido goes down without protest, the mischievous smile on his face goading Senga to thrust his hips up once, twice.

“The pants,” Senga whimpers, still grinding up at Nikaido, “those need to come off, now.”

Thankfully, Nikaido doesn’t say anything as he leans back on the balls of his feet and takes off both of their pants. He crawls back to bed, skin sliding up against skin and sending delicious friction across Senga’s nerves.

“God, Nika,” Senga hooks his foot against Nikaido’s calf, and when they’re lined up together places one hand on Nikaido’s ass to push him even closer still. He cants his hips up, gradually losing rhythm as they rut into each other.

“I want,” he starts to say, breaking off to take hold of Nikaido’s cock instead. Strangely quiet except for small puffs of breath, Nikaido returns the favor, hands firm and hot.

“More, more, just,” Senga sobs, fucking Nikaido’s hand repeatedly, faster and faster and _ohgodohgodmore_ as his vision goes white and he spills warm on his own stomach. Nikaido keeps on stroking him until he swats at the hand on his dick, limbs buzzing and body sated.

He turns a little to his side, reaching to pull on Nikaido’s cock and using his other hand to coax Nikaido on top of him. It takes only a little more, Nikaido pushing down desperately while Senga pumps him and licks at the shell of his ear, a whisper of “give it to me” while Senga swipes at the tip of Nikaido’s cock with his hand, and Nikaido is coming, hard and fast and messy, head buried against Senga’s shoulder and neck.

They’re both still warm and boneless, so it takes a while for the haze to partly clear. Senga’s lips touch Nikaido’s cheek, and then Nikaido turns his head and they are kissing again.

“Is it always like that,” Senga asks softly between kisses, his skin tingling, Nikaido still pressed against him.

Nikaido nods, content to lose himself in framing Senga’s face with his hands and kissing him into incoherency. They’re still spent, it’s too soon, but the afterglow feels nice and he Senga’s hands are traveling up and down his back in a repeated pattern.

“Tracing wings?” Nikaido asks, sucking at the hollow of Senga’s throat.

Senga smiles, humming his assent. If they keep this up, he’ll probably be all kinds of sore tomorrow. “I kind of saw them earlier, before. I thought you were going to lose control of the glamour.”

Pressing a final kiss to his Adam’s apple, Nikaido balances on his elbows so he can look at Senga. “I won’t, you know. You don’t have to worry about me hurting you.”

“Mmm, my protector,” Senga leans up so that their noses are touching. He can already feel his cock stirring again. “I think I’m going to take you up on that offer.”

Nikaido only huffs out a small laugh before he’s pressing Senga on the bed again and grinding their hips together, their kisses quickly turning heated.

*

Senga’s dinner--he got Mexican food tonight--had been sitting in the low table for the last fifteen minutes or so, cold and forgotten. Nikaido had called him right out of a photoshoot earlier today, asking if they could have a night in instead of that posh Italian dinner they’d had planned for a week now. Senga had gone back to his apartment to lights off and no angel in sight, so he’d decided to fetch dinner from the new food store down the block.

When he opened the door, food bag in one hand, Nikaido had just been coming out of the bathroom door, a look of concentration on his face and a trail of steam in his wake.

“Hi?” Senga offers, tilting his head by way of greeting. He doesn’t know what customary procedures are for welcoming someone who had just gone off on a six-hour meeting up in the clouds.

“You might want to sit down first,” Nikaido answers, sounding tired, and _okay, totally normal night._

“Wow, no, ‘how was your day, did you get mowed by fangirls, did the camera flashes render you temporarily blind, I missed you’?”

When Senga sees Nikaido just shake his head and hide a grimace, he motions them both to the couch. “Let me just unpack my dinner, then.”

The strong smell of salsa wafts through the air, and Nikaido is sure if he had required nutrition, his mouth would have watered at the food. Senga could eat for a small family.

“There’s been--a very surprising development,” Nikaido starts, always to the point. He’s still standing up and looking more and more uncomfortable by the minute as he tries to wiggle his way out of explaining this one.

It’s been five and a half months since he barged into Senga’s life, and they are only having this discussion now. 

“We can’t amend it, my superior said,” Nikaido continues, eyes following Senga, who is thankfully busy with not looking at him, methodically placing food containers on the table and opening them.

“It’s permanent, you mean. For you. The soulmate situation,” Senga replies. He doesn’t know what that means, at least not for Nikaido. Senga is mortal, and even though he’s 24 now, he knows he won’t always be. If what Kitayama says is right, then they’ll most likely be over with the rockstar phase in a few more years, and Senga can--will grow older, more brittle, and hopefully wiser, but Nikaido--won’t.

Which doesn’t have to mean anything to either of them, because hey, they’d only met for barely half a year, even if they were soulmates and had the marks to prove it.

_Especially since we’re soulmates,_ Senga’s mind tries to correct him, seeing the lost look on Nikaido’s face.

“Isn’t that a good thing, then?” Senga puts effort in making his voice as cheerful as possible. “When I go, you can just meet me at the entrance. Free pass to heaven!”

Nikaido frowns down at him. “It doesn’t really work that way.”

“Meaning?”

The angel ends up gesturing with his hands, voice worried when he says, “it means I can’t meet you again once you go. Ever. We don’t get what two mortals have when they die. Aren’t you bothered one bit about this?”

Senga doesn’t have an answer to that, because being affected, being upset would mean something else he’s not ready to discuss yet. It’s only been months, he shouldn’t be this attached, and yet.

“What about another option,” Senga prods, hoping to steer away from this particular topic. “Don’t tell me there is no Plan B.”

Nikaido sighs, pushing hands into his hair. “Only a few handful of angels ever get bonded to a human, and they can’t reverse it. Sorry. You’re stuck with me.” _And I don’t want to leave you, even if I’m not about to give up my immortality, because I am masochistic not-so-deep inside_.

“So we’re stuck like this, and you get to keep your powers and never die, while I grow old, wrinkly and moldy, and then I have to go so it’s goodbye forever? Did I get it all?” Senga counts down the points with his musician’s fingers as he lists them down, and Nikaido looks at him, captivated by the simple motion.

“You’re like, one in a million,” Nikaido finishes lamely, out of steam.

“What, you don’t seem too happy about it. Like I’m your punishment or something.” Senga snickers and throws a corn chip in Nikaido’s direction, trying to ease the tension tightly coiled in the angel’s shoulders. “Were you a naughty angel?”

“No, no, it’s not that. You’re great, I swear,” Nikaido doesn’t even look offended at the implied jab, looking more scandalized that Senga would litter in his own apartment. “It’s just.”

“Just what, say it already,” the couch creaks when Senga reaches out for Nikaido’s arm; the angel turns, Senga missing him completely.

“There was this thing, at work,” Nikaido fidgets, very interested in inspecting the dirt in his cuticles right now. _As if angels were ever allowed to be even the least bit dirty_ , Senga berates himself mentally.

“You mean in heaven,” he finishes instead, sounding skeptic about the idea of heaven looking and running pretty much like a standard office..

“Yeah, and. There was a sudden job opening, sort of like a promotion for me. Management said all I had to do was apply, and I’d get the job.”

‘Heaven having departments’, Senga wants to snort at the absurdity of it all. “What, like some other senior angel decided to die or quit? Can that even happen?”

Nikaido smiles, fond. “No, stupid, they said Randall--that’s the _senior angel_ \--wanted to. Um. Retire.”

Senga raises an eyebrow at him. “That’s a code word for something, isn’t it?”

“No?” Nikaido flops on the couch, finally. He grunts when Senga says nothing. “Ugh. Fine, yeah. He was the most incorruptible angel in our department and he--fell.”

For a moment, he tries, but Senga gives up on trying to conjure up the image of heavenly figures being corruptible. It just isn’t done.

“Fell? Literally or figuratively?” Sometimes, Nikaido makes jokes that come across as honest admissions to normal people’s ears, so Senga has learned to ask for clarification.

“Yeah. Like. In love, that kind of fall. So, he decided to give up everything and live out the rest of his life in mortal years.” Ironically, Nikaido also sounds like he doesn’t have a lot of confidence in the existence of moral principles when he talks about other angels.

“Wow,” is all he manages to answer with. To exchange immortality and all the comfort of being ethereal and unchanging and endlessly powerful for the sake of a human, so fragile and with lives so malleable, with hearts so easily tempted--Senga can’t imagine how it might have felt, making a choice like that while fully conscious of the repercussions.

“Did it hurt?” Senga manages to ask instead.

Nikaido studies him, curious. “Did what?”

The couch creaks when Senga moves a little closer to Nikaido. He can feel the slightest brush of Nikaido’s wings, cool against the warmth of his skin, feathers caressing his arms. “You know. Falling.”

“Oh,” Nikaido pauses, answering slowly, “I don’t really know.”

“You don’t?” 

“It’s not something we like to talk about, falling. They said--the gossipy ones--that there was a lot of screaming when they ripped Randall’s wings out. They had to clean out the ichor for weeks.”

“Oh yeah?” If he can still make jokes, Senga thinks they’ll be okay. He’s not right, though.

“And,” Nikaido reasons, looking pained and torn at the flash of confusion on Senga’s face. It draws in on him, then. He gestures at himself, “I didn’t fall.” _I can’t, don’t make me,_ he leaves hanging in the air.

“Nika,” Senga whispers, going quiet after, only giving a long look that has Nikaido shifting in discomfort. He’s so confused, about what this means, about what they can have, _can’t have_ that he doesn’t notice the silence until the angel shoves him and Senga ends up on the floor.

“Ow! Nika, what--!” Senga whines, hand going to his hip.

“I keep on telling you, quit staring.” Nikaido stands up and walks out of the living room. If he notices Senga addressing him too familiarly, he doesn’t comment on it.

*

Days blur into weeks blur into months, and Nikaido has been with Senga for the longer part of a year now. He stays for the remainder of KISMET’s Asian tour, the hotels and dressing rooms and airports of different countries all blending into a huge swirl of sights and smells. Wherever they go there’s always a good amount of music, a greater amount of fans, and stacks upon stacks of food that the band can’t eat half the time (mostly because they have weak constitutions and ‘damn, look at where they got that from, that is a smorgasbord of gastrointestinal parasites waiting to take over your body’, followed by a chorus of ‘shut up, Watta’).

Sometimes, though, when Nikaido is out for longer than three days, Senga worries, especially when they’re about to move to another country and he doesn’t know if the angel can even find him; heavenly creatures are opposed to the use of technology, it seems, and after Senga got a pointed look from Kitayama--who had caught him online shopping for three new phones in the span of one week (‘but Nika made the last one explode...’ ‘right, I didn’t want to know’), he had been forced to accept that Nikaido would be out and about with no way to communicate with him, should anything untoward happen.

Having divine power on your side has its perks, though, because so far Nikaido has always managed to find Senga, even when they play the most godforsaken cities, location-wise.

Naturally, the tour comes to an end and KISMET head home as the last dregs of spring clears out. Japan is a safehouse, for all of them, and a short break ensues with everyone trying to nestle back into the normal flow of things. Tamamori goes missing with Miyata for a week, and this time they manage not to get mobbed by fans. Yokoo is back with his wife and kids and their pool of pets; business is booming, too. Kitayama visits old haunts and acquires new ones, ever the party boy.

Senga goes back to his apartment and finds Nikaido already there. The dinner he has prepared for Senga is good, the welcome home sex even better. What started out as an unlucky coincidence changes into a temporary set-up that becomes everyday life, and frankly, Senga can’t complain.

Of course, they still banter with each other over the smallest of things, _who gets to do all the laundry today_ or _I’m not washing dishes, I don’t even eat anything here_ a part of their daily routine. KISMET gets the green light to start recording on their next album; Senga goes to rehearsals and returns to the apartment only to find Nikaido gone half the time, whisked off to meetings or away on ‘angel business’.

For some reason, Senga never gets to meet other angels, not that he would like to. Knowing one divine creature is enough to keep him occupied for a better part of everyday, thank you.

Nikaido doesn’t leave, not permanently, at least, and Senga, afraid of what the answer might be, never asks him to.

*

“So this is a thank you present,” Yokoo grins at Senga as he shakes the bottle of wine in his grasp, “because you’ve been getting laid more than usual.”

Senga has the decency to blush. “Not that I need help in that department, but yes, I guess. More of, thank you for losing the stick up your ass and giving Nika a chance.”

“Very classy. I like this new Ken-chan. You think we should get an angel to get Tama more sophisticated, too, Yokoo-san?” The computer chair creaks when Kitayama leans back, his form relaxed. He’s cradling a similar bottle against his chest.

“Hey!” Miyata protests through a mouthful of melon bread; he’s gatecrashing their rehearsal straight from a part-time job, because god-forbid he spend a single moment away from Tamamori unless it’s for work or going to the bathroom.

“Stupid, just eat,” Tamamori hits him hard on the shoulder, as if Miyata entertaining the idea of the two of them not being a couple is the most repulsive thing ever. He turns his head to Senga and smiles. “Thanks, Gacchan.”

Senga just nods, shouldering his bag and preparing to go home. Funny how he’d never thought much of his apartment before Nikaido happened. Now it’s like every inch of his flat has been splattered with ichor from the amount of memories Nikaido has made with him there, all the fun and nice and crazy and naughty. _Just like last night and this morning_ , he smiles to himself.

He isn’t exactly unaware of how handsy Nikaido has been with him these last few days, more so in front of the band. It was one thing to have them aware of what was between the two of them, but another thing entirely to have Kitayama smiling at them knowingly when they come out of the bathroom within seconds of each other, Senga looking flushed and Nikaido not even hiding how properly fucked he’d just been.

Yokoo had simply given up after catching them backstage one time too many, skipping the birds and bees talk and only reminding them once to ‘not end up like our press darlings, Tamamori and Miyata already have that covered,’ who got mobbed by the paparazzi in all the damned places, all the damned time, _please_.

Senga had tried to ask Nikaido the evening before, lounging about in the bed after a particularly vigorous round of sex.

“Mmm, what was that?” Nikaido is looking at him tenderly, one hand softly threading fingers in Senga’s hair; they’re lying on their side, facing each other.

“Not that I mind, but I’m sure you have a reason for the sudden public display of affection.” Once again his body recognizes the touch almost instantly, and Senga closes his eyes before he can stop himself. “Nika...”

There’s a hint of that small smile on Nikaido’s voice that Senga adores so much. “What? You worried I might be leaving soon or something?”

“No, why would I be worried.” Senga tries not to make any sudden movements; this is another sensitive topic. “Are you?”

“I’m not. Now stop thinking weird thoughts and just _enjoy_ , okay?” Nikaido chuckles, moving closer and pressing a small kiss to Senga’s cheek.

Senga can’t stop himself from prying, after all. “Okay. Just.”

“Now what,” the words sound muffled, Nikaido’s lips still touching the corner of Senga’s mouth.

“You don’t want to tell me. Isn’t that kind of lying? By omission. You can’t do that, Miyacchi says so.”

Nikaido sighs. “God, you have weird friends. I’m just. I like it, okay?”

Senga opens his eyes and tried not to go cross-eyed; Nikaido is too close. “Like what?”

“Being next to you. Showing people that we’re together. I don’t think that’s wrong.” Nikaido sounds serious, almost solemn about this.

Nothing immediate that would trigger this behavior comes to Senga’s mind, except for his bandmates all mothering him when he came down with the flu.

“Is this about Kitamitsu hovering over me these past few days? I told you he’s just like that sometimes, don’t take him seriously.”

“I know. I just didn’t like it.” The hand moves to Senga’s hip, and if Senga didn’t know any better, he’d think Nikaido was gripping a little too hard just now.

“That he was taking care of me?” There’s a part of Senga that wonders why he’s applying human reasoning when it’s Nikaido he’s trying to convince, but. “We do that sometimes. Human and prone to a lot of terrible things happening to us, you know.”

Nikaido shakes his head slowly, voice low, like he is embarrassed about this confession. “That I felt jealous.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’. So it’s not you, it’s me.” Nikaido pauses, then deciding to pull Senga on top of himself. “It’s just a stupid cliche, but. That’s not good, you know? For us, I mean. That’s how angels fall.”

_And heaven knows how much of a deal-breaker falling is for you_ , Senga thinks to himself as Nikaido fits their mouths together again.

*

The idea festers in Senga’s mind for a few more days, and he hates himself a little, because it’s not fair that they’re soulmates and Nikaido’s greatest pride in his immortal life is that he’s an angel, that he’s programmed never to entertain the idea of giving it up, even if it is for love.

Because that was what this was, right? This thing between them that they didn’t want to name just yet, this connection between them, a line as thick and strong as piano wire, tangling their lives together.

Senga almost wishes he could press rewind, to a time when he could be quiet and distant and there would be no Nikaido to loom over him, an imposing figure of concern, white and gold wings reflecting anxiety and worried eyes aflame for his sake. Senga is--

He’s just human, with a life so very short and fragile, and someone as magnificent as Nikaido shouldn’t even be wasting time on him, not when surely there is a backlog of divine tasks waiting in his office upstairs.

But knowing that this was it, looking at the words on his wrists, a permanent brand in black, reflecting gold when the light hits it just right-- _gold because of Nikaido, because of his blood,_ Senga knows now--and trying to find someone else, who could never match up, who would not be enough to fill the void that Nikaido would leave.

Senga doesn’t think he’s cut out for that. So he waits and hopes, with days spent in bliss and nights curled up together under sheets with his most favorite being in the whole world.

It won’t end now. It can’t, because this is the happiest Senga has been, and the only thing Nikaido wants is for him to be happy.

*

“We need to talk,” Nikaido starts the moment Senga has removed his shoes and is sitting on the couch, and boy, if there was ever a clichéd scene for breaking up with someone, this was it.

It doesn’t help that Nikaido looks resigned but not one bit guilty, dressed today in his robes instead of what had become his casual clothing. He’s got nothing he can take with him; material possessions start to lose meaning when you live forever and are at heaven’s disposal.

“You’re leaving,” Senga accuses, already knowing the answer with the way Nikaido’s eyes glow in solemn apology. _No no no it can’t be it’s too soon don’t do this we didn’t have enough time I don’t want to._ “It’s okay, I said we’d be fine.”

Nikaido takes a deep breath before he answers. He would never lie to Senga, angel or not. “I promise to come back. This isn’t goodbye.”

“You could have at least let me have dinner first, but really, who cares, asshole. Your supervisor has probably been cursing up a storm trying to get to you, I’d say it sounds important.” Senga wonders why his throat is closing up, shit, if he gets sick Yokoo will be angry and he should probably take something, this felt like the flu, his eyes becoming a little watery and his chest starting to get tight.

“Kenpi…”

“I’m not stupid, okay, I _know_ you have to go. Divine duty and all that.” Senga doesn’t argue when Nikaido pulls him into a tight hug, threading his slim fingers through the angel’s wings. How long until he can feel this again, if he even gets a second chance.

It takes them a long, quiet moment and Nikaido still doesn’t let him go, touching his lips to Senga’s shoulder despite Senga’s grunt of protest. “I’m sorry.”

“You say this isn’t goodbye. It better not be,” Senga sniffs, pushing at Nikaido to _go already_ , before he has an emotional breakdown and tries to put the entire apartment complex on lockdown.

It’s only June, but instead of the hot, humid air and the celebration brought on by festivals, Senga spends his days waiting for a sight of wings so bright they glow white and gold, and eyes that burn fiercer than the most magnificent fireworks of the summer sky.

*

Kento picks at his shirt, pulling at the sleeves until they become so loose and worn out, just so they cover his wrists. If he tries to hide the words and forget they ever existed, maybe his groupmates wouldn’t send him those pity looks. He’s had enough of a month of them. He’s _not pining_ , and it would be in everyone’s best interest if they kept to their own business, seriously.

And Nikaido hadn’t said goodbye, so that was a good sign, right? He wasn’t going to be like Yokoo, who got very sensitive when anybody so much as patted him in his shoulderblades.

Senga had only seen the words a couple of times, the black a stark contrast to the paleness of Yokoo’s skin, ‘words can mean so much more, to the right person’, and look at how apt that had been.

Yokoo was happy, his wife and their lot of hell children making a ruckus in the front row of their shows, and yet sometimes the lyrics he wrote spoke of longing, of a journey that spanned years and years and spoke of no end.

Maybe it didn’t have to be a strictly romantic relationship, maybe Yokoo had only wanted to know who the owner of those words were, to have a name and face to remember, to maybe have the person whose soul shared his’ beside him.

But then again, Yokoo had met his soulmate at a bookstore. For maybe a total of five minutes. Senga had gone ahead and fallen in love. With an angel, one with golden ichor for blood and an intricately tempered disposition that was reflected in his eyes and laugh. And that was the crux of it all, wasn’t it?

*

“Gacchan,” Tamamori whines, one hand gripping his beer bottle, “I can’t anymore, we should just both stop.”

Senga just flicks one hand in assent, facedown on the counter. If he talks, he’ll slur, and he’s only on his third glass of beer. Tamamori isn’t faring any better, though, with four and a half bottles in and counting.

Yokoo wipes another glass clean, looking at them with thinly veiled distaste. “If you idiots are done messing around now...”

“Wataru, let the boys unwind,” a dainty hand comes to rest on Yokoo’s shoulder, and Saya comes into view, shaking her head at the two boys drinking the bar dry. Yokoo’s wife rarely comes out to help with the shop anymore, what with the children to look after.

“They’re commiserating over the stupidest things, is what they’re doing,” Yokoo answers without heat, turning his head just a little bit to place a kiss on Saya’s cheek. “Don’t you be siding with them, too. It is a very sad attempt to soak up all the alcohol they can this last week, they’re like greenhorns with the way it’s seeping through their pores when we rehearse.”

Saya laughs at that, the sound quaint and melodic. “Oh, honey, don’t be a spoilsport.”

“It’s what Watta is best at, didn’t you know, Saya-san?” Tamamori stifles his laughter. “I’m sure he’s always putting something in our drinks. We’re lightweights, but not _like this_.”

“Shh, you,” Yokoo says, gently setting the glass on the rack. “Want me to call Miyacchi and pick you guys up?”

Tamamori shakes his head no slowly. It takes a moment for his vision to focus, but then he’s looking at Yokoo. “We’ll crash at Gacchan’s place. Need a cab, maybe.”

Yokoo looks at the pair of them, his eyes lingering on Senga. Yokoo can’t hide his concern, doesn’t try to mask the worry primarily because Senga isn’t even awake right now.

“He’s still not okay.” It’s not a question.

Tamamori gulps some of his beer. “Maybe. I don’t know. He never cries.”

“Were you hoping he would?”

“Sure, why not.” Tamamori stares at his best friend, his oldest friend who had never let him down, except from maybe a few select times when he had been trying to ask Miyata out and Senga flat-out refused to be his kissing partner, which, Tamamori can’t blame him really, because gross.

Tamamori realises he’s stopped talking when he finds Yokoo waiting for him expectantly; he clears his throat to continue.

“I was--I thought, with enough alcohol I could get him to cry, you know. Or maybe throw things against the wall, get it out of his system. But we don’t even drink that much, so I doubt this counts as alcohol poisoning for us both. And he just passes out, then the next day he’s just sober and reset and I have to go with him to the bar after dinner again.

“Gacchan is the first friend I ever made, and I can’t do anything for him right now. If I could find Nikaido-san and make him fix this, I would. But where do we go to summon an angel, Watta. I’ve no fucking clue. It’s frustrating.”

Tamamori places his palms on the counter, seemingly done with his monologue. After he finishes his beer, Yokoo announces the night to be over, and hauls them to the cab he called. He pays the driver and apologizes in advance for the two drunken men he’s about to deposit in the stranger’s care.

Fortunately, they make it to the apartment before Tamamori’s legs give out on him, and he and Senga stumble to the bed in a sloppy mash of limbs.

Yokoo definitely laced their drinks with something strong.

There’s not much moonlight to go by, but Tamamori can see Senga’s face, inches from his own. It’s not really pinched in pain, but the glow of happiness from the last few months is gone, and Tamamori can’t stand that he has to watch from the sidelines as this happens.

He takes a shallow breath and turns around, forcing himself to sleep.

He doesn’t notice when Senga turns on his side, eyes only slightly open but definitely wide awake.

*

It gets better after that, strangely. Senga stops dragging Tamamori out for nightcaps, almost completely stops with the drinking, and actually focuses on work better. KISMET churns out hit after hit after hit, every release doing much better than the one before it. ‘Goodbye, Thank You’ is their latest single, and it sells 800,000 copies on its first week alone.

Senga channels all his energy into writing songs and playing music with his closest friends. He still waits, still hopes, but thoughts of Nikaido don’t eat him up anymore, not like before. He can be better, stronger, more improved and ready for whatever it is that they have, the next time Nikaido sees him.

If they ever notice the small slip of Senga’s smile not reaching his eyes sometimes, they never say. Baby steps to get better again, just baby steps.

*

When he opens the window and peers down the sidewalk, trying to see who had been throwing pebbles at the glass, Senga sees Nikaido and almost drops his phone in surprise. He scrambles to catch it and is thankful when he sees there is no damage, then turns back to the window to glare at the angel.

“Nika? What the hell?”

“Hi,” Nikaido says, hands in his pants pockets and feet shuffling for warmth in the cold December evening, his red nose hidden beneath a scarf that’s covering the lower half of his face and muffling his voice.

Senga has a lot of things he suddenly wants to say, the worry and confusion about everything that happened now replaced by a short and illogical burst of anger. This time last year, he and Nikaido had only known each other for four months--they’d had their first winter together. Then spring came, and then early summer.

After that--two seasons of moping and drinking a little (a lot, actually, but never alone, thank God for bandmates that also acted as support systems) and rubbing his wrists raw, and trying to move forward. But mostly waiting.

He had waited and waited _and waited,_ the expression ‘to have the patience of a saint’ never having had a clearer meaning than then, and even if Nikaido had been away on whatever it is angels do when they’re not wasting time with mortal soulmates, he could have at least sent up word and--

“--you’re not shimmering,” Senga half-shouts, looking at the angel’s back. Even if NIkaido had been hiding them, Senga would have been able to see the faintest trace of wings.

“What?” Nikaido has pulled the scarf over his head and is holding it in one hand, and Senga can see the small, mischievous smile on the angel’s face, the one that had gotten them into the most pointless arguments countless times this last year.

“Your wings, asshole, they’re gone,” Senga replies, realising belatedly that his neighbors will think ‘the strange band kid is high again’ with the way that sounds. God, the things Nikaido does to his already weird brain.

From the second floor, Senga sees Nikaido shivering from the cold. _It’s from the winter chill,_ he tells himself, only to feel surprise a moment later because what the hell, Nikaido had never been cold, ever, angels weren’t temperature-sensitive and why was Nikaido overdoing it with the clothes, decked out in gloves and a scarf and _proper winter boots_.

“I’m about to collapse from hypothermia any minute now, if you would like to invite me up,” Nikaido’s teeth are chattering as he calls out, dragging Senga out of his thoughts.

It’s the longest three minutes of Senga’s life, and when he opens the door Nikaido’s not even fully inside the unit yet when his arms go around Senga in a hug, nose pressed to Senga’s neck and chapped lips cold on his shirt.

“Jesus, Nika, what happened to you,” Nikaido is freezing, to the point that Senga has the sudden thought to push him away. He scraps that in favor of putting his arms around Nikaido.

“Human bodies are weird and weak as shit, that’s what happened to me,” is Nikaido’s hurried answer, and then he’s toeing the door closed to push Senga against the wall, kissing the daylights out of him.

There is a lot of teeth and tongue and biting involved, the two of them pulling and shoving at each other, blood singing in Senga’s veins as it all clicks into place, as if singing ‘this is it, finally, it fits and you’re back and you’re _mine_ , you can’t let go now’ and before he knows it, _he’s_ pushed Nikaido up the wall, hands going to Nikaido’s shirtfront with Nikaido gripping his waist tight as they press their mouths against each other’s over and over.

The kiss ends and Senga is short of breath, and when he looks at Nikaido he sees eyes bright with pleasure and affection. Senga can’t believe he’s here; sure, he’s waited and hoped and maybe even used up all the loose change he could scrounge up on wishing wells and temples and whichever deities angels were affiliated with, he never really bothered to know. But having Nikaido warm and willing and _happy_ against him…

“Nika,” Senga nudges Nikaido to stop nipping at his jaw, sights and sound grinding to a halt with all of this, their reunion so sudden and unpredictable. “Nika, stop.”

“What?”

Senga fixes him with a look. “You have some explaining to do.”

“I,” Nikaido pauses, and a helpless laugh bubbles out of him. He tilts his head to the side, their noses touching. “Can’t that wait another time? I really missed you.”

“No,” Senga stands his ground with narrowed eyes and a purse of his lips, clearing the fog in his head. “I waited for you for _six months_ \--”

Nikaido kisses the corner of his mouth. “Only six months?”

“Nika!” Senga balls his hands, trying to hit at Nikaido’s chest even when they are locked in an embrace. His irritation isn’t exactly convincing, what with him still pressing Nikaido to the wall, but a man can try.

The infuriating grin is back on Nikaido’s face, his eyes no longer reflecting heavenly fire but still as intense, this time with something else entirely-- _it’s love_ , Senga tells himself, _he loves you, so, so much_ \--as he presses his lips to Senga’s, sealing their promise.

“I’ve been waiting for you forever.”


End file.
